


Heart tick tock tickable and lips lipstickable

by Radiolaria



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Blood, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, I hate you. It was supposed to be my surprise, Jack. You ended up having far more fun than I did.”</p><p>In which Jack is the damsel in distress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart tick tock tickable and lips lipstickable

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Let's knock knees - Harry Revel
> 
> You may recognise lyrics from Let's misbehave, The Yam, I won't dance, Let's do it, No Strings... Yes, this is the reason it is crack. I had fun.
> 
> [Ada Bricktop](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ada_%22Bricktop%22_Smith) and the  
> [Paris's tornado](http://www.meteo-paris.com/chronique/annee/1926) were indeed part of Paris history, though I have no idea how the Music Box looked like.
> 
> [The Apache dance](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apache_\(dance\)) is a wild, fight-like dance.
> 
> Any mistake is mine.

The long-legged smart beanpole dashed in the club swirling along with him a spritzing blond, curls and flounces one might call inappropriate for the time. Droplets of colours were hitched in their hair, dark and light, impossible tiny lanterns sprinkled on vaguely fibrous surfaces, as if they had stepped out of a spring shower. Paris had been dry for days. And Parisians were hot and grilled under the sun.

The golden headed feminine presence, essence, rather, judging by the way her hips and shoulders were swaying and fizzling with the music, rocking with them a specific perfume, blend of cherries and electricity. Staggering beside, her boy -as she just had called him- dashing and dapper with spades threw his arm in the air and jauntily baited a _garçon_. He then proceeded to wrap a long, tailored arm, attached to a similarly long and tailored body, around the taut, still rhythmically quivering body of his escort to guide her to the table a plucky waiter was pointing out, all ready to fly to the next couple.

 _French waiter_ , he thought, clearing a path between the dancers for his River –for the dancing, quivering woman was a River indeed. Absently, she was frisking behind, balancing her strides to the left and the right, following a three-beat set of steps, which made her progression excruciatingly slow and convoluted.

“River!” The Doctor –for the Doctor he was indeed- muffled his cry and yanked her closer to him, before dragging her and sitting her down at their table. He flopped on the opposite chair, with a satisfied grin on his face. “There. We are here.”

River, barely coming out of the haze the music had splayed on her, still beating a tattoo with her whole frame, eyed him closely.

It had been almost too easy she thought –and her thoughts were like feet shuffling up in her pretty cabbage. Not the dressing up – he has a tendency to overdress for her; not that she complains, she loves her boy dashing and dapper, but when she barges in in torn clothes or sweaty sweaters she feels somewhat out of place.

But to offer her something as mundane and boring as an evening to Bricktop’s Music Box in the late twenties had been a daring bet in itself which he nonetheless undertook. At least the poor devil would not have to worry about blending in during the time period. To her knowledge nothing had happened that precise night of June 1926, so why would it be of any interest to him?

“I want punch”, he exclaimed with determination, as if the desire to drink a rum-based beverage had hit him as hard as the hangover she would not fail to experience in the morning.

_He drinks, he spits, I finish his glass._

She sighed.

“You don’t want punch. You hate it.”

“I haven’t tested it yet.” He shook a finger in her face, dramatically. “Spoilers.”

The Doctor did not tried punch, he tried a Mary Pickford -because of the grenadine- and oh-so surprisingly hated it –because of the rum. She gritted her teeth.

“What part of light rum did you not understand?”

“The little part. I need to get drunk.”

She snorted.

“I doubt you can get drunk, Sweetie, and not on a Mary Pickford.”

They had a bite before taking up the dance floor, mixing with the other couples, in a smoky, bouncy atmosphere. The club had nothing raunchy in itself but it was Bricktop’s and the musicians had obviously decided the night was a night of razzmatazz and oomph. And spice and smother and not one couple was resisting the urge to literally melt in the other’s arm. It may have been the heat peak, a bit tropical for the season, or the brawl before the little cabaret facing the entrance just before the club’s opening time -shipmen from Brittany that had sailed up the Seine and swept the nearby pubs with their songs and clear eyes against tanned skin. Or simply Paris in the summer, the effervescence and buzzing of the City of light, with its intoxicating whirlpool of smells, garbage in the streets, Italian restaurants, sweat and flowers and perfume and cabbage and cologne ganging up on the senses at every corner. The first time River tried it, that intoxicating city, she nearly fainted; Paris smelled…

The Doctor’s face, eyes closed, forehead resting against hers as they were swaying, was  nearly white under the bad lighting – how did the people in there even see their glass, they both wondered. A perfect picture of a dandy with his hair combed back and she had half a mind to release his shoulder to let her hand rake his brillantined hair. He sensed it too, that heavy, sensuous, about to sparkle atmosphere, like carbon monoxide in the air, because unconsciously his left hand started roaming across the small of her back. But she giggled in his face when she discerned in his idle doodles gallifreyan words. He opened his eyes, startled, and asked under his breath, voice low.

“What?”

It was her turn to close her eyes before answering, carried away.

“Stop writing your Christmas list on my back”, she clarified.

“Nobody understands it.” He shrugged.

“I do and you are a naughty boy for asking such things.” She pressed herself against him, having given up on any serious dancing with him, just savouring the slight rhythmic bouncing as they mimicked the swingers around.

He snouted his way between her curls, settling in the crook of her neck and there just between the ear and the nape he whispered, sheltered by her mane.

“You divine creature.”

His hands were roaming across her bare back and he caught a strap. She whispered in a laugh _Don’t_ and fiddled with the bowtie, her forefinger tearing the knot loose and pulling him closer in a firm hold.

“In a romantic mood, are we?” he inquired, forehead creased. He knew this game would be lost by his dame.  And she was willing to lose tonight. Swept by the simplicity of the moment.

“In a mood, that’s all, I would not call it romantic though… Normally I would be ashamed to drag you on any dance floor, terrestrial or not, but you are quite amazing tonight.”

“Just following you”, he beamed, bringing her closer. The straps of her dress, all feathers and fluff, were flitting about his chin with each breath. Her tiny Christmas-heavily bejeweled hand patted him on the back of the head.

“You flatterer.” She rested her face on his chest, breaking the eye-contact so long maintained. His smouldering looks, the music, the well-earned boring time together. A moratory was needed if she wanted to make it last long enough to hear a Charleston.

“You are delightful company. Know that, Professor Song?”

The music changed to a jazzier, snappier tune and around, the feet were summoning up wilder steps than the ones performed by the alien couple.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I’ve been told several times, by quite a lot of gentlemen, though they didn’t phrase it exactly that way, and even might have forgotten… Wouldn’t know them, though, not your generation.”

He fondly hummed.

“Out of my league now?”

“That’s what happens when you play with high-class weapon”, she sang on the beat.

“Oh, I have this one in hand. Perfectly.” He squeezed her arse, flew to her waist with his other hand and settled there, a perfect fit. She shuddered at the thought of being seen performing such an indecent performance. Exhibitionist. She grinned.“It’s an old model, careful and deft fingers are required. You know, very few people are allowed to handle this museum piece anyway. One touch on a delicate spot and it crumbles.”

“Does it, you smug son of a gun?” Her chuckle was caught at the back of her throat and the tremor rattled through their ribcage, delicious. He plucked her head up, severing the contact again. “You’ve got lipstick on your nose.”

“You put it there, you plushy minx.”

Her hips began hovering against him, her breasts and he regretted the position adopted.

“River, stop. I’m not asbestos.”

She was shifting, so slowly, so steadily, letting her whole body exploring his.

“Not here, we can’t.”

Her lips puckered and the mockery blazed at her eyes.

“Why? Do you think those couples came here just for the dancing?” She dusted his shoulder, as though letting him time to come up with an answer.

 _Cocky,_ he noted.

“It only begins on the dance floor and you better keep the promises you made there, my boy.” She accentuated each word.

“Why does it always end up to it with you?” he whispered, so close to her.

“Because”, she tugged at his lips, playing it gently, letting their noses brush and he minced forward seeking her luscious lead lips, red lantern.“Birds do it, even time lords…”

“We’re not birds”, he countered. “We’re… I don’t know what you are exactly.”

“We’re not above birds…”

“Well, birds wait for a certain season…”

“Bring on the big attraction, my decks are cleared for action.”

“We can’t do it whenever we feel like it.” He wailed again, more and more unconvinced.

“The thing is, whenever I feel good, really good with someone, I feel like it. And there’s no one in the world I feel really good with save you, idiot. How do you feel when we do it the human, stupid, physical, awkward way, as you call it?”

He eyed her with mocking amusement on the lips.

“Funny, good, ‘kay amazing.”

“And?” she brushed his face, thumbs on his eyebrows, light and soft.

“Happy”, he mumbled, but looking at her straight in the eyes.

She chuckled, loosening her grip on his and gliding back into the peaky rhythm, imparting their pace with a little more energy.

“That’s a way to describe it. You are an idiot nevertheless.”

“River, we have other things to do”, he pleaded, slowing their steps and swirls on the dance floor.

“You have no idea how I agree with that. I didn’t come to do the Charleston. I didn’t come to ball the jack.”

He stilled her, dragging her out of the way of the many dancers.

“You might want to reassess that.”

River pointed a quizzical chin at him and pouted, before shrugging and stopping completely her swaying.

“Why are we here?”

“Jack is in a very delicate position upstairs.”

Her eyes were lit with bewilderment and unfortunately for him excitement.

“Jack Harkness?”

“The one and only.” He nodded.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Because I thought someone was going to free him. Obviously no, and we’ll have to do it. Trouble is, I can’t. He has never met me before, not this face…”

She rolled her eyes, faint attempt at disguising her disappointment after being so freely offered a romantic evening in Paris. He squeezed her elbow, his eyes a picture of contrition. He nudged a bit, skimmed to her hand to lace their fingers together.

“I thought I would combine business with pleasure. If you don’t want to do it…” He trailed off, watching for the minute signs of hesitation. She crooked a smile that has the wickedness of being a good omen.

“Silly, stay put, in the background –surely you can manage it once in your life. He doesn’t have to know the pretty brunette with me is the Doctor.”

“And how exactly do you intend to achieve his rescue?”

“We go up, we get him, we have more of that delicious fruit mousse… Oh, perhaps, we could steal and same some for later.” Her smile was inviting, a bit too delighted to pass as chit chat. He leant in, satisfied of getting away with the murder of a perfectly good non-life threatening evening.

“Miss Song?”

She put her hand in his face to keep him from capturing her mouth.

“Business first, Doctor! Jack is still upstairs, probably bound and helpless.”

The Doctor cockily snorted.

“He may be blissfully enjoying it.”

Her fingers snapped in his face and pointed to the nearest seat –drowned in smoke and alcoholic vapours. The faces were garish and luscious around. It was just thighs dancing or thighs crossing or thighs being touched and pinched and how was he supposed to wait?

“Sit. Do not budge.”

“Beck and call…”

“No, peck”, she deposited a kiss on her forefinger and lifted it to his lips. “And give me a sonic wave if you see anyone trying to follow me. We really don’t need to get thrown out that club. The rescue is easier when already inside. And when you see Jack, do not pull out your sonic. That might give you away.”

He saluted her, in mock-sternness and watched her disappear in the crowd. He focused on her small, malleable form sliding between the dancers. More specifically on the mop of hair bouncing above the heads. He followed and followed her. When she –or rather her hair- began bouncing rhythmically with a turbaned bob and performing impossibly jazz steps –he had just caught the sight of a not River trousered leg, probably linked to the golden curls, flying up the air – he knew he had lost her.

River, elbows out and sneaky, was already fighting her way back to the Doctor. She lightly tapped his shoulder. He faced her with a fixed manic smile –entirely the hair’s he thought to be River’s acrobatics fault. River ignored his expression, not daring to imagine how he occupied his time.

“We can’t use the backstage route. It is guarded and heavily. The guys are playing cards before the door, and oblivious to my feminine wiles.”

“We can’t?” He paused, the hair were doing magnificently on the dance floor. ”Of course, there is a more dangerous, more illegal way to get upstairs, which you are going to choose despite my pleading not to because this is insane and of all the Time events in this place one is not immortal and you are this Time event.”

With a smug grin, she gripped his shoulder and orientated him to face the orchestra; on a small stage, two professional dancers were madly twirling. Nice and shiny, a performing flight of stairs lead to a small gallery, connected to another gallery connected to… The first floor was obviously accessible via the stage. He frowned, bemused.

“River, how do you intend to cross the performing area, zigzag a way between the dancers and stroll past the orchestra, innocently?”

“Certainly not!” She smirked. ”Crazy man style, yeah.” She crinkled her whole face, delightfully.

Slowly and unnoticed by the male, the couple had been progressing to the performing area, only separated by a low velvet bannister from the crowd. The Doctor was gaping at the bowtie and dress of the musicians, neat and cool, while River was scanning the crowd. She boldly smiled as a couple of young, sparkly things strode toward them.

“Sweetie, you might not want to witness this.”

“Witnesswha…”, he barely had time to begin, redirecting his gaze from the engrossing footwork of the double bass player, soon enough to see River grab the couple at the base of the neck, one hand for each; they squeaked and their whole body sagged. River was holding them like rabbits, perfectly casual as if she was just greeting very Frenchly the couple. A horrified expression crashed his features, comical to a point where he had the appearance of scrambled eggs to her. She stifled a laugh but he was too busy panicking to take note of her. No one around seemed to realise there were unconscious standing people; River disposed them on chairs and it was still unnoticed.

But unconscious River-acquainted sitting people are hard to notice in the middle of unconscious drunken sitting people, noted the Doctor.

Standing and agape, he was of course beginning to draw the utmost of attention on them, prompting River to tug at his coat and drag him in the pperforming area. He had strayed along, stunned and stupid. A tailored emcee accosted them and River performed a terrifying American act for him. The Doctor was eyeing her with concern, fearing she might have confused times and places.

With an indecent display of chest and throat and general riverness, he thought, she murmured something and the man, vanquished, clamored a boisterous “Ladies and gentlemen, straight from the United States of America”, the Doctor writhes under curious, enraptured glance some customers were already casting at them. “The Great dancing duo, Melody Garbo and her partner John Gilbert.”

 _What,_ he mouthed.

“Renown in Argentina for his peerless eyebrow disappearing act.”

“What!” he squeaked again at the master of ceremony.

But River was already simpering and trotting up the stage, with him attached to her hand; she wound him, receiving his body against her with a smothered humph, and eyes malicious.

“Brace yourself Fred Astaire, you are stepping up your game tonight.”

Poor man; he was in a position to panic and knew it. Because it was Paris and he was practically sure he had spotted Cole Porter in the crowd.

It was his woman daring him to save Jack with a twirl and have a blast at it.

“Just hold on tight, okay.” He whispered instead, unsure.

Her lips red stretched like a fruit opening on pearly white pips and he opened the dance with a seasoned “Ha”.

He had no idea what his limbs were doing and she trusted him not to know. The beat was steady and the drums rolling. Swing and roll, he suspected –accurately- she was trying to rock and roll before time. He panicked, felt swallowed by the rhythm, was about to sink and trip but she hooked her mind to his and hoisted him up. For a moment he gaped, the contact releasing and unbearably exciting and from then on they were communicating. She did not need to maintain the mental link.

Dancing is talking and touching a lot. It is questions asked and suspended, silences held and thrown at the other’s face. Beats hailed and supports hallooed. Each error is a springboard; River Song is an expert in diving, the Doctor in blunder. A perfect dancing act.

She twirled away and he caught her hand right on time before she flew off the stage; he tapped his shoes and her answer was an off-beat, cocky stomp, that had the nearer tables shrivel with laughter.

They were quite a sight; not the most graceful or inventive dancing duo; but the word “sensation” was being exchanged between sips of _rosé_ – they talked while dancing, words ancient and beautiful, and some of their steps were out of this world. It was almost too hot in there, too high, and a little bit stellar; the male had a furious desire to wipe off the grin from the woman’s face, with a kiss.

At some point, she almost stumbled – the musicians were wild and not letting them leave the stage – and he lifted her hand, stole a kiss to her pinky and sent her spinning away, then against him, with a tilt of the hips and a dazzling smile. The audience roared, a few dancers tipped their hats to them. Behind, the number of playing instruments is getting sparse, drawing to a long-due five minutes pause and within seconds the dancing couple takes a bow on the hoarse pounding of the bass and the shuffle of the drums. He prepared to dive in and collapse on the nearest chair, with a tug she dragged him toward the back of the stage.

“Jack’s waiting.”

They strutted up the stairs, from time to time flashing smiles to the admirers still waving at them. Soon they had reached the balcony overlooking the room. River stopped considering the row of doors in front of the wooden railing.

“What now?” He was surmising their whereabouts. Dancers and personnel seemed to be using the passage quite often. Often enough for them not to be spotted right away.

“Do we try to skitter to each door and knock? Being polite could work.”

River had brought her hand to her mouth, worrying her lips and looking over the crowd below. The couples had taken up again the dancing and from up there it was obvious to River some people were exploring more than the exotic rhythms ascending from the orchestra.

“When in Rome…” she whispered to herself before grabbing the Doctor by the collar and swallowing his mouth. He flailed, wildly, panicked as they swirled and slouched against one of the doors, banging it open. The occupants, two boys of the staff stacking chairs, barely looked up from their work and advised “Two doors to the left, please”.

They swirled out, her lips still glued to his. Out of the room, they parted, taking their breath, and he looked up her face with complete admiration:

“You brilliant woman.” Her eyes were glittering proudly and she smiled inches from his face.

“Next door?”

He pecked the tip of her nose before recapturing her mouth and sending her waltzing against the next door. Three doors, one bathing maharajah, one busy couple and a fluffy costumes storage room after, they finally bumped their back to a locked room.

Bouncing from the door and landing on the railing, they looked at each other, partners in crime. River extended her hands with a flourish and bowed before him.

“Work your sonic, Arsène.”

He bumped her aside with a giggle and while she was watching over the passing on the balcony, he worked on the lock. Simple thing, the sonic finished it in a second. He called her with a ‘pstt’ and they both leant on each side of the frame, the door still closed but unlocked between them. She was flushed, he was tickled. Neither imagined the evening could be this fun.

“A last dance, my lady.”

He offered his hand which she captured and laid on the small of her back.

“If it begins shooting, I have my gun.”

She pressed herself closer, opening and shifting her legs so that he could feel the weapon concealed against her thighs.

“River…”

“You don’t understand. It’s only to distract them. I will knock them down bare-handed.”

He knit his brows but nodded. It was her department, no need to argue. He refused to think about the possibility of her being hurt. To distract his worried meanderings, he opened his palms on her cheeks, and just studied her framed face. She smiled. Before waltzing against the door, lips locked, he just had the time to catch the adrenaline-lit spark in her eyes melting to a gleam akin to confidence. She felt safe in his embrace.

Even dancing to their death.

The door opened with a bang revealing a very empty room –save from Jack tightly bound on a chair dangling from the ceiling. And muffling frantically at them.

The Doctor carefully closed the door behind while River rushed to the pulley and rope system maintaining Jack in the air. It was a plain, characteristically no-good-business room, with mould and dust and plinths barely holding.

The Doctor joined River to start hauling down the post-modern chandelier who had become aware of the difficulty to accomplish such deed while the structure was wiggling and decided to yield to stillness. He came down to the wooden flooring with a loud thump and humph.

River indicated the door with a nod to the Doctor and hurried to ungag the time agent. The Doctor complied, not willing to inflict fate-changing spoilers on the already wilted man’s timeline. Also he knew he could not offer him sop for his condition.

“Sorry.” She caressed the time agent’s reddened lips and smiled, apologetically. In his corner the Doctor was dithering before her behaviour. “We’re late.”

Jack’s face was white, glistening with sweat, marked with a crimson bar across the lower part.

“No problem”, he offered, voice hoarse, taking in her whole appearance, the dress and gun and finally the silent man pricking up his ears by the door.

“River?” His eyes were intent on the man, his breath more hastened. Of course he suspected who the young man might be.

“Don’t mind him”, she cast aside his doubts with a flip of the wrist. Jack knew too much about her story. “I borrowed him to a time when fun did not exist.”

Relieved to find his instructions clearly displayed before his eyes, he drew his attention back to her, willing to ignore for a little longer the man he was not supposed to know. He trusted her since a peculiar adventure in the New Classic MoMA.

“21st century Earth? Have you gone time-appropriate River Song?”

“Not even”, she grumbled, setting on untying what was the work of the Brittany sailors.

“Then who’s…”

“He’s Fred, my personal sexy companion.”

The Doctor’s head snapped up and he nearly poked his eye out with the handle. A wail escaped him and River granted him a soothing look. Jack was nonplussed, going through his person, as if checking his bits.

“Well, he nailed the personal sexy part down to a tee.” He commented absently, busy ogling. “Are you sure he’s quite up to the companion part? There’re some nasty meanies out there wanting nothing but a reason for perfecting plastic surgery on me.”

“Of course”, she sneered. “When did I ever choose incompetent people to work with me?”

Jack was enjoying this.

“He seems very non-threatening to me and you don’t drag people in Paris 20s unless they are equipped to tango a bit.”

“That’s because he is out of his magic suit.”

Jack and River eyed with astonishment the Doctor from whom had just rang the words.

“What are you talking about?” asked River, concerned. He folded his arms on his chest.

“Me. Sorry”, he sniggered. “I thought the topic was this Freddie sexy person of yours who’s apparently not in the room while nonsense is being made up about him.”

Jack beamed.

“He’s touchy! I like him.”

River pulled a rope near Jack shoulders and he cried.

“But useful. It seems we will be working on this brainteaser for quite a while. Sorry, Jack. Sweetie, keep an eye on the door.”

Jack was dubious, no matter how well he knew River and trusted her recklessness as much as his, this was a pretty doctor-ish strategy. And doctor-ish strategies had yet to prove their efficiency.

“Is that your plan?”

From the front of the room came the satisfied cry of the Doctor.

“Ah, you see? Making it up as you go is not that easy!”

“Shut up and guard”, snarled River. The Doctor turned his back to them, letting them to their mishmash of reacquaintance and knots. Obviously spoilers were dancing around and River was minimising their exchanges.

“Can we Bossa Nova out”, Jack tossed.

“Not invented yet.” River had her fingers so tightly entangled in the mess of ropes the Doctor was almost ready to rescue her. For their demise, she had banned the screwdriver. And so close to Jack he could not use it.

“Can we invent the Apache then? That could work!” Jack was still overly enthusiastic. It was now obvious getting out of here would be a merry chase and he relished in the prospect. And in River’s annoyance.

“Already invented.” She gnarled a little more.

“Archaeologists are just spoilsport”, Jack concluded.

“Tell me about it”, retorted the Doctor and Jack settled his eyes on him.

“You’re cute and I really like you.”

River huffed, exasperated.

“Jack, eyes off him! I cannot unbind you if I want to kill you.”

“That sounds like a very interesting proposition. Of course, if we try that, I require not to be killed that early in the festivities, like last time.”

 _Too much information_ , River squinted. The Doctor gaped.

“Now, hang on a minute.”

She held out a finger to his striding and quite visibly fuming self.

“Sweetie. Not now!”

“But you and he, you, you…” he stuttered, under the delighted stare of Jack.

“Now’s not the time and place” She scolded. Still pulling and nudging on the heaps of knots, she lifted her head in his direction, admonishing him not to take one step closer to Jack. Her voice dropped to a whisper and shielding her face from Jack’s face, she added:  “And certainly not the company.”

The Doctor went back to his observation deck, chastised and pouting. Jack shook his head. This was a teensy bit underwhelming. The interactions between the two of them was making it obvious the sweet pie was not a plausible incarnation of the Doctor.

But then Jack had only met two versions of said Doctor.

“You don’t even ask how I ended up here. Who would have thought a kiss –and artifact- stolen to Cole Porter would have led me here.” He sighed, a beguiling smile spreading on his lips. “My story is much too sad to be told.”

“Glad to hear that, we have no time.” She had released his feet and trunk, remained his hands.

Generally in such stories, that is the time the baddies choose to barge in. They did. The Doctor screeched, River jumped to his side, closing the door to the henchmen’s face and concealing the Doctor sonic as he repaired the lock.

Jack was too busy tearing apart the ties on his wrists to notice. He threw the ropes and chair aside, taking a deep breath. As he spat out the remains of the ropes, teeth and lips bloody, he stood on his opened legs, blissfully free at last. He shot a carnivorous grin to River and the Doctor.

“What do you offer?”

River grimaced, curled up against the door and Doctor, wincing with each ramming of the hound outside.

“Fist.”

The Doctor shook his head in disagreement.

River ignored him.

“Then window.”

“Window?” Jack was rightfully reluctant to dive into a climbing trip after spending hour tied up. River gave him an apologetic nod.

“Window and then roof”, she confirmed.

“This is Paris.” Jack was trying very hard not to seem as thrilled as he was. Danger needs to be catered and wrapped before use. “Have you lost it?”

“No, just her verbs and non-monosyllabic words,” quipped the Doctor who was still hiccupping with each bang.

“This is really not the moment”, she held a hand out to him.

“I’m just showing off before they show up and I’m reduced to hide in a corner while you do the fighting.” Said they burst through the door, cuffs opened and pulled up to the elbow. Nasty grins and very dissatisfied faces brightening the grim stage. “

Hello”, the Doctor chirped, opening his arms wide. “Nice of you to join, we were afraid we’d have to start without you.”

River violently tugged him out of the way and threw him at the windows while Jack was already diving in the crowd.

“Sweetie, to your screwdriver. You have some _jalousie_ issues to work with.”

“Can we stop with the puns? I need some help with the punching”, came the muffled roar of Jack from under the bundle of swinging arms and shoulders.

River dove after him. There were five men, not armed, but with fists like canon balls and a bit crazed by a woman’s presence in the fight. With unrestrained savagery, they sent Jack waltzing against her. She received him in her arms, taking the blow; he would be of better use to her there than knocked out on the floor. Despite the Doctor’s concern.

They fired, both of them at the same time, like bullets, descending on the brutes and falling them one after the other. And the Doctor forgotten by the window now freed of obstruction, shivered. They were leaping and biting and dodging , two felines and monstrous killers. Sharks rather, both his creation, of sorts.  Bodies were overturned with a rage bestial and the Doctor was not sure he could bring River and Jack back to their senses.

No wonder he is driven to both of them.

The ease and suppleness displayed bore a striking resemblance to the dancing of before. The Doctor noticed, willfully chose to close his eyes. Under his fingers clicked open the window, the _jalousie_ no longer obstructing the view. It was an inner yard, occupied by a floor building.

“River, Jack!”

They whipped their head back to him, assessing the exit cleared, and immediately scurried to the window. Two hands seized the Doctor by the collar and flung him outside. In a tumbler, he could see the sky, two figures flying above him, before he crashed on the roof of a lower building. Jack and River were already on their feet, though as unsteady as him judging by the limp Jack was sporting.

The Doctor let out a wheeze, scrambling to his feet. From above, shouts and insults were raining, the boldest of the men already taking a run-up to jump in their wake.

“And now?” The Doctor dared to ask.

River and Jack exchanged an impassioned look.

“Have you seen _To catch a thief_?”

 

***

“You know, I hate you. It was supposed to be my surprise, Jack. You ended up having far more fun than I did.”

“Jack and me and rooftops? Come on. This is Paris. We needed to escape them anyway.”

“We ran down to the Seine river. The Seine river. From the club. On rooftops. Even for me that’s far too much running. And then jumped into the Seine river. Into.”

She combed his hair from his face but he shrugged her off and jogged to the console, leaving her by the door. She flinched, loitered to the nearest seat and waited.

His eyes were sparkly, feverish and black. From excitement or cold, neither of them could tell. He resumed his story, wanting the TARDIS to bear witness.

She was silent.

“And then got picked up by a boat and went up the Seine river. A fishing boat. Then River ‘offered’ him a ride back to England. Left me on the boat where I made the acquaintance of a lovely poodle. Whom she refused to welcome on board.”

He caressed the control panel near him.

“You would have liked her. She reminded me of Napoleon. Oh, and of course River caused a tornado when zapping back from Cardiff. How could I forget this?” He turned to River.

“I hate you.” He stated simply.

“You know I will be the one in trouble with the Time Agency after that, don’t you? There really is no need to worry.”

“I hate you.”

River bit her lower lip and crouched up to him, sagged against the console soaked and spiky, hedgehog of filth and temperament. Her hand tentatively found his jaws and he stiffened, breaking away from her touch, with a retreat of the shoulder. She considered her options, rose to her feet and announced, dramatically:

“You leave me no choice.”

He looked up in defiance.

She had slipped out of her drenched dress revealing an impressive structure of pearls and strings and things. Barely concealing her modesty.

“River!” He cried.

“Let’s say I owe a favour to Anita Berber...”

“To Anita Berb… River, I don’t like it…Wait a minute, you had this under your gown? The whole time?”

She swayed to him, hips glistening with the remaining water, hair viciously dark and tamed by the damp. He was already fiddling with the bits of the thing in thought. She knew it was an irresistible combination.

“Bigger on the inside, my love.”

She was inches away from him, tempting and luscious, stinking of fish and fruits mousse. He looked up.

“Can I see the dress?”

 


End file.
